


A Finer Line

by NeverEverAfter



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Drama, Eventual Fluff, Eventual Gadreel/Reader, Eventual Sam Winchester/Reader/Gadreel, Eventual Smut, F/M, Oral Sex, Shower Sex, Smut, Swearing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-10
Updated: 2015-11-28
Packaged: 2018-04-24 18:58:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4931410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NeverEverAfter/pseuds/NeverEverAfter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For years, you've hunted with the Winchesters. You have a complicated “together-but-not-together” sort of relationship with Sam, which becomes more complex when a certain angel shows up after Sam's collapse, promising to heal him. As you can imagine, it only gets crazier from there. </p><p>Essentially, this is a Season 9 storyline rewrite; mostly canon-compliant but with some events altered or added in order to account for an extra character arc (yours!). Fluff, smut, drama, action, and all that good stuff.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You and Sam share a moment before the swiftly-approaching end of the third demon tablet trial. (Takes place during 8.23.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right, so; I decided post-posting of the "first" chapter that this story needed a prologue (sorry, poor timing on my part), and this happened. Now, while you may not realize it based on the first two chapters, I swear to Chuck that I believe in a happy ending for you and your boy(s). It may feel like a trust fall out of a 10th-story window at this point, but I promise you; the blanket is down there and I will catch you. I just want you (and Sam! and Gadreel!) to be loved! So have patience, friends, and ye shall be rewarded.
> 
> Y/N = Your Name

Seven vials of sanctified Winchester blood and one Knight of Hell later, the world has grown dark. A thick layer of clouds stretches for miles around, hanging low into the horizon. Every so often, patches of blue-black sky bloom like bruises.

Behind you, the church door opens and shuts. The straightening of your back is second nature, bordering on Pavlovian; the resulting ache, a standard consequence of having recently been thrown out a window. You readjust; you ignore. Second nature, all of it. “How long has it been?”

“Forty-five,” Sam says. His voice is caught beneath his boots, a rough scrape against damp cement.

“Almost there.”

“Almost.”

He takes a seat beside you on the landing, labored and slow. His shoulders hunch as he stoops over, resting his wrists on his knees so that his hands dangle in between. From the corner of your eye, you can tell he watches you for a moment before shifting his gaze to the horizon. “You know, if this works…”

“It could be the end—of all of it.” You lean back on your haunches, propping yourself up with your palms at either side of you. “For real this time.”

“Yeah.” It's more breath than word, more sound than substance, but you can hear the ghost of a smile in it. A broken, false thing. He angles himself just enough to offer you his profile. “You sure I can’t convince you to come with me?”

You take a deep breath, in and out through your nose, before inclining your head toward him. Even in the darkness, you can tell that he’s frowning.

“You know I want to, Sam,” you say. You can hear it in your tone—rueful, bitter. You hate it. How long has it been since either of you had time for _wants_? “And you know I can’t. Just because we stop hunting things—”

“Doesn’t mean they stop hunting us. Yeah, I know.”

A minute or two passes in silence, but he doesn’t turn away. You’re grateful for that.

“Where will you go?”

“Haven’t thought about it. Whatever feels right, I guess.”

Your throat tightens. Those three words are the be-all and end-all of you and him. You say them all the time; both of you do, even in place of the alternative. Especially then. It’s always been safer that way. As a coda, you suppose they make sense, but hearing them in that context is jarring. You wonder if it’s the same for him. Judging by the subtle clench of his jaw, it probably is. Maybe he regrets saying it.

“Sam, I’m gonna…” You hesitate, weighing your desire to tell the truth against your own rules. “Miss you, you know? A hell of a lot.”

“Yeah,” he says, catching his bottom lip between his teeth. “Me too.”

You feel a shiver run through your body and you lean forward again, wrapping your light jacket more tightly around you. It’s the weather, the rain-cooled spring air; you just hadn’t noticed it before. No other reason.

“Y/N?”

“Mmm,” you hum, forcing yourself to look down at your shoes as you roll the fabric of your jacket between your fingers.

For the moment, you don’t trust yourself to speak without saying too much. That’s how it starts. How it gets complicated. And the whole damn reason you have the rules in the first place. If you didn't—if you actually followed through every time something felt right—it would all go south. Because that’s what always happens. Far better to have less than enough of a good thing and not risk losing it. Buried in thought, you don’t notice the movement of Sam’s hands until they are cradling your jaw on either side, coaxing you to face him. He brushes his thumbs across your cheeks and sighs—relieved, perhaps, that they are dry. If he’d waited a second longer…

You look directly into his eyes—the hazel you know is indistinguishable and lost to the gloom, but you still find him there—and let yourself derail. One second longer doesn’t matter. He didn’t wait. He doesn’t wait. You’re grateful for that, too.

More than anything else in your life, the familiar feel of his kiss is a comfort to you. The untended shadow of stubble along his chin and cheeks is coarse, but you hardly mind the light scratch and burn of it as he maneuvers his lips and tongue across yours in every imaginable way. Sam’s lips are a prize, still soft and smooth despite the toll the trials have taken on the rest of his body. You would know them from all others by touch alone.

You indulge yourself in him, fingers over flannel, committing the line of every underlying muscle to memory. He weaves his hands through your hair, behind your neck, and holds you close. This shouldn’t be the last time. You don’t want to believe that. When he finally pulls back, neither of you can bear the idea of separating completely. Not here at least; not yet. You choose instead to remain wrapped up with one another. Not willing to move as minute after minute passes you by. Not even when you feel the first cool drops of a renewed rainfall starting to come down.

Much too soon, the sudden, shrill _beep-beep-beep_ of Sam’s watch alerts you to the time. The final injection. You’ve been preparing for this moment for months, though you’re less sure now than ever that you’re ready for what comes next. You let your eyes fall shut. Just five more seconds.

“All right,” Sam says, voice low as he mutes the alarm and stands resignedly, one arm extended in your direction. “Let’s finish it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To be continued...
> 
> I can also be found on Tumblr as [white-feather-black-ink](http://white-feather-black-ink.tumblr.com). Bonus: everything I post there comes with a handy little button that will replace all the Y/N tags in the story with your name (or whatever name you choose to enter). If you'd like to follow me there, please feel free. Thanks for reading!


	2. The One Who Picked Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam is hospitalized in a coma after calling off completion of the third trial, with you and Dean watching over him. The three of you receive some angelic visitors. One of them is friendly. The others, not so much. (Takes place during Episode 9.01.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y/N = Your Name

You wake to the sound of steady beeping. Sleep hadn’t been particularly deep. Or restful, for that matter. Your back hurts—thanks, in part, to Abaddon. The rest of the credit goes to yourself, to so much time spent slumped forward in your chair, over Sam’s bed. It takes a concerted effort to drag yourself upright. Yawning, you squint at the digital display of the monitor. Ever since you’d arrived at Linwood Memorial, you’d watched it almost as much as you watch Sam. That’s saying something.

Heart rate, blood oxygen level, respiratory rate; but the numbers are blurred. You bring your hands up to rub your groggy, aching eyes, pressing with your knuckles almost to the point of pain, and look again. Same as ever. Which is to be expected, you suppose. Checking his vitals is just a habit, though the frequency of it borders on obsession. It’s proof of what you need, packaged in tangible data: _he’s still alive_.

From the moment Sam lost consciousness, you and Dean have been at his side constantly. One or the other, if not both. Vigilant until just before dawn, when your crippling lack of sleep had you passing out on the job.

 _Caffeinate_ , you think to yourself. _You’re slipping, Y/N. Get a coffee. And a grip._

The blinds have been opened, sunlight filtering into the small intensive care room. Dean’s chair by the window is empty, and he is nowhere in sight. Possible he’s grabbing a bite at the cafeteria downstairs. Maybe just getting some fresh air. Either way, your cup of red eye will have to wait, no matter how badly you need it. You aren’t going to leave Sam alone, not now.

Not ever, if it were up to you.

In the days leading up to the third trial, you’d rested very little. Your stubborn and overwhelming concern for Sam hadn’t let you, even before you’d learned the truth, that the real cost of sealing the gates of Hell would have been his life. If Dean hadn’t shown up when he did— _exactly_ when he did—you would have been forced to watch Sam die, helpless. An abandoned church in the backwoods, a funeral pyre; that would have been the end of it.

Worse, the revelation would not have stopped him. He would have run to death willingly, believing as he did that his greatest sin was how many times he’d let down the two people he loved most. That his only chance at redemption was slamming the doors of Hell shut forever. Begging and pleading, it had taken both of you to pull Sam back from that ledge. Even afterward, his balance was precarious. You’d seen it in his eyes—through a layer of tears and straight down to his soul—how ready he was to jump. No matter how much your heart wanted to deny it, it was obvious.

Rock bottom and deeper.

Still, there had to be _something_. The gates were left open, but it wasn’t like Sam thought. That wasn’t his only chance. There was another way, a better way, _together_. There had to be.

You hadn’t slept a wink since. Hell, you’d hardly so much as blinked on the drive over. Not even when Sam had been admitted to the hospital, sent for an MRI, and assigned a bed in the ICU. No; it wasn’t until you’d spent most of the night staring at him, trying to bring him to consciousness with sheer force of will alone, that you finally gave in. Even then, you’d only meant to rest your eyes, just for a moment, but your mind was clouded and dizzy with fatigue. What it became was three unintended, uninterrupted hours of your face pressed into the stiff mattress, one hand still covering Sam’s.

Next to him, you’d always felt so small. And it was a good thing, a familiar comfort—made him seem reliable; and you, protected. He would be the first to tell you that you were just as capable on a hunt, that you spent just as much time covering his six as he did yours, but those were just facts. The truth was what you told yourself: Sam was special. Wherever you were, whatever hole-in-the-wall motel the three of you were camping in, you could just slip into his bed in the middle of the night, curl up against him, and you were home. Safe.

Now, with Sam lying in a coma not two feet away, the difference shrinks you in other ways. _Insufficient._ That’s the best word for it. How you feel as you watch and wait. What you are, without any power to change the situation; _to just—fucking—fix him._

More than once, you’d debated marching out to the hospital garage and popping the trunk of the Impala to make a deal with the King of Hell himself. No doubt it would cost you his captivity as well as your soul. No doubt either that the smug bastard would lord it over you like a puppeteer pulling your strings, but not even that was a great enough deterrent. The only thing stopping you was the thought that throwing your own life away would kill Sam even if it meant that his condition didn’t.

Despair knots sorely in your throat. You order yourself to swallow it back and replace it with words, but they come out weak: “I’m still here, Sam.”

His chest rises and falls with each breath he takes. Under his eyelids, his eyes flicker back and forth. Beyond that, nothing. You take one of his hands, rubbing soft circles into it with your thumbs. Chances are, he can’t feel you any more than he can hear you, but the thought of doing nothing leaves a bitter taste in your mouth.

To your left, the wall-mounted flat screen TV is silently playing one clip after another of the event the news stations are reporting as a global meteor shower. You know better. Each of those shooting stars has a name, and if you hit par for the course of your hunting career, probably a grudge. Angels falling from the sky in flames, every last one a potential enemy seeking answers—or worse, _revenge_ —after being cast from their home.

It hadn’t been your doing. Neither Dean’s, nor Sam’s. But Cas—god, it had been _Cas_ , and that’s close enough. He’s part and parcel now. No pissed off angel would make the distinction. Just watching the replays is enough to send a chill through you, equal to the one you’d felt last night when you witnessed it firsthand.

Without warning, the door clicks open behind you. Dean.

“Hey,” he greets you, voice hushed. “How’s he doin’?”

After a swift glance over your shoulder, you revert your gaze to Sam, focusing on the feel of his skin beneath your fingers rather than the sickly paleness of it.

“The same. Where have you been?” It sounds more confrontational than you’d intended, and you bite your lip.

“I just had to make a few calls.”

You consider Dean’s ambiguous answer amid the sound of shuffling feet. The door shuts and he clears his throat, prompting you to a quarter turn. Your breath catches. There’s another man. One you don’t recognize. Not dressed like a doctor—hooded jacket, khakis.

Dean inclines his head. “He’s the one who picked up.”

The gears in your brain are rusty, turning more slowly than usual, but the realization still shifts into place. Your eyes don’t leave the stranger then. You know exactly what he is. Only that is enough to justify letting go of Sam, one hand reflexively palming the place you’d sheathe a blade if you weren’t entirely disarmed. With Sam out of commission, you’re already on edge. Defensive. Add exhaustion to the mix and your brain defaults to hunter instinct over human courtesy. You stay quiet.

“He’s here to help.”

You mull it over. Knowing Dean, he’d have gone through the motions before bringing this angel here, would have questioned his intentions, tested him before letting him anywhere near Sam. You’re sure of that, and you have faith in Dean, even if you’re not ready to say the same about your guest. That isn’t enough to give the angel carte blanche, but it’s worth something at least.

“Oh.” Letting go of your held breath, you scrub your face with your hands. You give a light shake of your head, vaguely aware that your current manners leave something to be desired. “Right.”

You allow yourself to relax then, enough to appraise the newcomer through more neutral lenses. He’s tall, broad-shouldered, sturdy in a way that reminds you of Sam—an involuntary comparison that clutches at your heart. Handsome, too, as they often are in their chosen vessels, with wisps of dark hair falling across his forehead.

“You angel boys,” you say, making an attempt at levity and an apologetic smile. Both come off half-assed in execution, your voice worn and cracking. “Always shop couture, huh?”

“I beg your pardon?” He knits his eyebrows together, maintaining that angelic stoicism.

“Ah, nothing,” you say with a huff, shaking your head again. “Sorry, that was—rude, probably. I’m just…tired.” You push yourself to an unsteady stand and turn to face the others fully, gripped all the while by vertigo. That hypothetical coffee of yours is long overdue. “I’m Y/N.”

“Ezekiel.”

“Ezekiel,” you repeat, taking a dazed crack at committing it to memory. “You, uh—you’re going to help him? Help Sam?”

“I will try.”

His voice is calm and methodical. Even that, you’ve noticed, is comparable to Sam’s. The cadence is different—measured, and far more formal—but he speaks with the same breathy undertone. Under better circumstances, the similarity would probably be soothing. As it is, your heart sinks a little. You don’t like the sound of “try.”

God help you, you just need to get your head on straight.

“Dean, do you—? You got this? For now? Gonna grab a cup downstairs. Wanna be myself, y'know? If Sam wakes up.”

 _When_ , you correct yourself, licking your lips as a fresh warmth sweeps over your eyes. _Not if._

Full sentences and an emotional range that doesn’t go from zero to sixty at light speed would be great, but without refueling you aren’t capable of either.

“Yeah. I’m good. Knock yourself out. Or—not,” Dean says with a quick tilt of his head. “You know what I mean.”

“Thanks,” you reply, already heading for the door and tugging it open.

With one hand still on the lever, you second-guess your exit. Instead, you stop for a moment to look over at Ezekiel, as if sight alone could convince you that he won’t just _try_ to heal Sam; that he’ll succeed. You _need_ him to succeed.

Unfortunately, what you find isn’t particularly convincing, and you decide that searching his face for reassurance was a bad idea. Very, very bad. He looks every bit as lost as you are, returning your stare with perplexed eyes.

Green. Those, at least, are different.

Dean clears his throat once more. “About that coffee,” he says. “Get me one?”

“Yeah,” you sigh, taking the hint from Dean’s raised brows that your behavior had been awkward even for him. “Sure thing.”

You step out and pull the door shut behind you, hesitating for a moment before you make your way left, toward the hallway that sits perpendicular to this one, just past the nurses’ station.

Halfway through after the intersection, you reach the third floor elevator and almost fail to move out of the way as a nurse rolls a wheelchair-bound patient out of the cab. You take their place inside and scold yourself internally on the way down. Being this absent-minded; not to mention getting into staring contests with strange angels, no matter how attractive they may be… It just isn’t like you. And if— _when_ —this whole matter gets resolved, you’ll be sure to apologize to what’s-his-name for making an ass of yourself.

The elevator dings in agreement and its doors slide open on ground level.

Across the lobby, the cafe line is thankfully nonexistent and the pleasant-looking middle-aged woman behind the counter offers you an expectant smile as you approach.

“What would you like?”

“Coffee, please,” you reply with a flimsy, auto-pilot smile of your own. “Two shots of espresso.”

“Can do.” She grins at you, turning toward the expensive-looking commercial brewer.

“Oh, make that two coffees actually,” you add, just as she pulls the first cup from the stack. “Sorry.”

“Long night, honey?” she asks with an intuitive glance in your direction as she starts the drip.

_Is it that obvious? Probably._

You can only imagine that you look rather worse for the wear. It’s been two days since the last time you bothered to look at yourself in a mirror, and what few reasonable changes you could expect would include dark circles under your eyes and a wicked case of bedhead.

“You have no idea,” you murmur back. One more weak effort at pulling up the corner of your mouth, just for good measure.

The steady pour of dark liquid is almost hypnotizing as it fills one cup after the other, steam rising visibly in the cool hospital air. It’s such a simple thing, and you find yourself getting lost in it.

“We get a lot of those around here,” the woman says as she adds two pumps of espresso to each coffee, eyes trained on her task, “Don’t know that it helps much, but you’ve got company.”

You sincerely doubt that they get a lot of _these_ anywhere. The patented Winchester and Company brand of self-sacrifice generally lands you in a nondescript motel, middle of nowhere, TV on a good day, cable _maybe_. Stitching yourselves up with a needle, dental floss, and a bottle of the highest proof you’ve got. That is, when the trouble’s not fatal. Or worse.

The barista meets your gaze and her expression is sincere: a sympathetic quirk of the mouth that accentuates her laugh lines. “What I mean is, you’re in good hands here.” She slides the two paper cups in your direction, complete with spill-safe lids and coffee sleeves.

“Thanks,” you reply sheepishly, pulling a crumpled bill out of your pocket and laying it on the counter. “Really.”

A ten is all you have on hand, and you don’t wait for change.

Back at the elevator, you press the “up” button with your pinky, taking a test sip of your coffee as the doors open and you step inside. It’s on the verge of scorching, but that’s not enough to stop you from gulping it down to the dregs during the ascent to Third Floor. The sooner the good stuff hits your system, the better.

Just as the doors slide apart, the whole building is racked with a violent shake. Inside a suspended elevator, the shudder is enough to knock you off your feet. Without thinking, you drop both cups in an effort to steady yourself against the wall. Dean’s coffee erupts in a hot splash that soaks through your jeans. If there’s any pain at all, you’re far too preoccupied to notice. The realization of danger is already washing over you and pulling you under.

“ _No_ ,” you whisper to yourself, as if you could will it away.

This is not an earthquake. None of you are ever that lucky.

The jump-start to your nerves sets you off at a sprint, dashing out of the elevator and down the hall. You weave yourself between people and carts, cutting the sharp corner and nearly colliding with a nurse on your way toward Sam’s room. A hurried litany of “no”s falls from your lips the whole way.  
You have to get back to Sam. _Now._

When you push open the door, panicked eyes scanning the room, Dean is already busy marking the walls in Enochian with a dry erase marker. What’s-his-name— _Ezekiel_ —is standing near the foot of Sam’s bed, distracted only for a moment by your abrupt entrance before he concentrates on the chaos, mentally dissecting the signs of the imminent attack with growing concern.

With the first hints of adrenaline already snaking their way through your bloodstream, your mind works faster than you would have thought possible just two minutes before. Hardly missing a beat, you snap the door shut and snatch up the remaining marker, complimenting Dean’s black sigils with your red ones on every wall of the room. When you finish, you lay your pen to rest on the small bedside table, giving Sam a once-over with your eyes as Dean finishes the final mark on the door itself.

“Long as these are up, no angels are coming in,” Dean says, capping his marker and tossing it unceremoniously to the floor.

“Or out,” you add quietly, taking note of the nervous way Ezekiel’s eyes scan the writing on the wall.

Of all the ways for an angel to react to confinement warding, you think fear would be among the least likely. Most of them seem to operate under the assumption that they’re invincible, right up until the point where an angel blade gets shoved through their chest. Even trapping them in holy fire, the most you’d ever seen one get is annoyed. Yet there he is, looking more uneasy than anything else.

“You gonna be okay with these?” Dean asks.

“I’ll manage.” Ezekiel’s response is pithy, his eyes flickering briefly to Dean’s before he redirects his focus toward the door.

“What?”

The sounds of shouting outside the room mingle with a high-pitched ringing that grows and grows. Dean’s eyes—and yours, no doubt—widen as Ezekiel’s reply removes any lingering denial in both of your minds and replaces it with dread.

“They’re here.”

A brief pause, like a held breath, just long enough for the gravity of the situation to ground you.

“Okay,” Dean says, resolving himself to action and infusing his voice with a sense of command as he turns and grabs the door handle. “Do not open this door for anybody but me.”

“Dean—” you start, looking at him over your shoulder, but he cuts you off, choosing instead to stare past you.

“Save him, you hear me?”

“ _Dean_ ,” you growl, more forcefully this time, spinning to face him head-on. You hate being ignored. Especially when it suggests you’re about to be left out of the action. And with Sam’s life hanging in the balance, that’s damn inexcusable. “You’re not going out there alone.”

“You got a weapon?”

He phrases it like a question, but his voice is resolute. Both of you already know the answer. Carrying weapons into the hospital hadn’t been worth the risk of getting thrown out. Not when Sam was in critical condition and neither of you was willing to leave his side. You’d left them in the Impala, along with the other—far more dangerous—contraband.

“Do _you?_ ”

Your retort only reaches the back of Dean’s head. By the time the words even exit your mouth, he’s already out the door and pulling it shut behind him with a significant _click_.

“Damn it,” you mutter, running both hands back through your hair as you glare daggers into the ground and turn on your heels.

When you look up, you notice Ezekiel, who is already moving closer to Sam’s side.

“You,” you say, your expression softening with hope as you catch sight of him. He’d been so quiet during your exchange with Dean that for a moment you’d almost forgotten he was there. But you’re more than aware of him now. _Angels always come with—_ “Your blade. Can I—?”

You pace toward him, holding your hand out expectantly. Ezekiel just swallows and sets his jaw in response, looking pointedly down and away toward Sam rather than making eye contact with you. Even without him speaking it aloud, you know he’s declining your request.

“Trust goes both ways, right?” you insist, your sense of hurry reinforced by the sound of glass breaking in the hallway. The interior windows are already giving way to the escalating peals of angel voices. “You’ll get it back.”

“If I had one to give,” he says, dragging his eyes back up to meet yours.

His look is one of sincerity: regret and something else that you can’t quite place. You’d say it was shame, but that’s another trait that most angels don’t seem to possess. Whatever it is, it doesn’t matter. All it amounts to is that he’s telling the truth. And it figures, really. Of all the angels to respond to Dean’s prayer, you _would_ get stuck with the one who’s claustrophobic around Enochian sigils and doesn’t carry an angel blade.

You open your mouth to say something, but think better of it, pursing your lips together and letting a steadying breath out of your nose. Outside, the fire alarm sounds and the shouts of frightened hospital staff reach a fever pitch.

“How many are there?” you ask instead, trying to keep your voice level. “How many angels?”

“Two, at least. Perhaps more.”

“ _Awesome,_ ” you huff, unable to reign in the gratuitous dose of sarcasm as you stalk back to the door and turn the handle. If you don’t leave now, it’ll soon be too late to risk opening the room. You’ve made up your mind, your sense of purpose brightening your tone somewhat. “Then I’ll even it up.”

“You are unarmed.”

“So I’ve been told,” you say with a cheeky smirk in Ezekiel’s direction.

Before you go, you give a parting glance to Sam. If there’s anyone in the world worth taking bare fists to an angel fight over, it’s him. There’s no thought in your head more prominent than that as you step outside and close the door behind you, but you have little time to stew in your determination.

The sight you catch when you look down the hallway causes your stomach to drop. An angel wearing the body of a slim woman in a teal jacket has Dean by his throat. She looks like she would belong in a book club or a prayer circle, if not for the fact that she’s lifting a full-grown man with one hand and holding him at arm’s length as if he were nothing.

You make a mad dash in their direction, the carpet of shattered glass crunching under your shoes. At the last moment, your eyes catch sight of an angel blade lying discarded beneath her. But she’s not alone, and the stocky, trucker-hat-clad angel in front of her has noticed your approach and matched it. No time for delicacy, you take a dive for the blade, your shoulder colliding painfully with the tile flooring. As soon as you have your hard-earned prize in your grasp, Trucker Hat has you in his and he jerks you up. One hand fisted into your shirt, he rotates and shoves you against the wall opposite the nurses’ station, his forearm pressing tightly against your neck. You open your mouth, struggling to take a breath, but nothing can make it in or out.

Dean isn’t much better off, having been thrown back against the wall of the intersecting hallway like a rag doll. He scrambles to his feet in a frantic effort to come to your aid.

“Let her go, you son of a bitch!” he barks, eyes blazing with ferocious intent as he takes menacing strides in your direction.

All for nothing. Before he can even get close, the female angel cuts him off, striking him with an inhumanly strong backhand that splits his lip and sends him stumbling. He doesn’t even have a chance to recover and she’s on him again, swinging. Some of her punches are blocked. Most aren’t.

Fighting back against Trucker Hat with one hand, you twist the angel blade in your other, ready to go for a kill before you run out of time. The unyielding pressure against your throat already has your head spinning for lack of oxygen, and your lungs feel ready to burst.

“Winchester pet,” he snarls at you with a condescending sneer as he wrenches your wrist with his free hand, forcing you to release your hold on the weapon. It falls to the floor with an ominous clatter. “I’ll put you down.”

He readjusts his grip on your shirt—both hands now, _thank god_ —as he yanks you off the wall. You suck in a desperately needed gasp of air, but your relief is short-lived. Not one second later he slams you back against the partition, using enough power that you hear a loud _crack_ as your skull connects with the hard surface.

“Y/N!” Dean’s voice is shouting your name, but he sounds impossibly distant. “ _Y/N!_ ”

It’s the last thing you hear before your whole world goes black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To be continued...
> 
> I can also be found on Tumblr as [white-feather-black-ink](http://white-feather-black-ink.tumblr.com). Bonus: everything I post there comes with a handy little button that will replace all the Y/N tags in the story with your name (or whatever name you choose to enter). If you'd like to follow me there, please feel free. Thanks for reading!


	3. We Got Us

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the way back to the bunker, you and Dean discuss what happened and what comes next. You and Sam celebrate the homecoming with a hot shower. A really hot shower. (Takes place during the end of 9.01 and the beginning of 9.02.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y/N = Your Name

_Sam._

For a moment, you swear you can smell him, feel your cheek pressed against his chest as you breathe in the earthy aroma of sandalwood and patchouli. Everything else is weightlessness and gentle rocking in the cool breeze. Like a ship at sea, yet it must be him. Even in your sleep you'd know the feel of his arms around you.

But you're awake now. At least, you think you are.

When you manage to drag open your bleary eyes—just a crack, just to be sure—you're almost certain the pair looking down on you are hazel. Brown hair, blurred at the edges by a halo of gray sky. You open your mouth to say his name, but your voice never follows. The world is so quiet. And your eyelids are so damn heavy.

* * *

 

The next time you awaken, you're greeted by the tan roof of the Impala and the purring vibrations of her engine against your body. Outside the window, green trees flash against a darkening horizon. You haul yourself up, much less than proud about the strength you have to muster. Each bone and every muscle seems to ache—and your _head_. A hiss of pain escapes you as you pull away from the support of Dean's rolled up jacket.

“Morning, sunshine,” Dean greets you from the driver's seat.

“What happened?” you murmur. _When? And how—?_

“That angel clocked you good,” he says, eyes on the highway, hands on the wheel. “Had to carry you out myself.”

Your mind is still hazy as you struggle to remember. Pain splitting outward, darkness surging in, and then—“You?” _That can't be right._

“Yeah, me. Who else? Every nurse in the joint was giving me the stink-eye.”

Dean's reply enters one ear and passes unimpeded out the other. Suddenly, you're far more concerned with the figure on the passenger side. His body is sagged over, shoulder pressing into the door. Not moving.

“...Sam?”

When he doesn't respond, you can feel a fresh panic starting to well up. From your position you can't even tell if he's breathing. No rhythmic beeping here; no number values to set your mind at ease.

“He's fine.” Dean says. “Or he will be.”

“ _Will be?_ ” you repeat, now fully alert. “Ezekiel—?”

“Took off, right after laying on hands.” Dean gauges your incredulous glare in the rearview mirror. “ _Zero_ bedside manner.”

“You're jo—” You purse your lips, unable to finish the sentence. That he could make light of a situation like this while Sam is still passed out in the front seat is beyond you. “And you just— _left_? Didn't even wait to make sure—”

“ _Relax._ He did what he said he'd do.”

“I'm sorry,” you scoff. “Since when does _Dean Winchester_ trust someone he just met?”

“Since when do you not? You're like the poster child for second chances, and you won't even give this guy the benefit of the doubt?”

You grit your teeth, stifling the smart remark that's pacing behind them. You _had_ given him the benefit of the doubt, and Sam is still unconscious. Now minus the care of trained medical staff.

But what was the alternative anyway? Stick with inpatient in a hospital that just got smoked by angels? Not likely. Besides, Ezekiel had seemed sincere enough. A little stuffy maybe, but he wouldn't be the first angel you'd met who turned out all right despite acting like he'd been living under a rock since the dawn of time.

You blow out a long breath of concession. “That's just it, Dean. It's not that I don't—I'm just...afraid of being wrong this time. What Sam said in that church; if he—if he dies thinking—”

“Sam's not gonna _die_ , okay? _Period._ ” Dean furrows his brow. “Do you really think I would have let Ezekiel off the hook if this wasn’t on the level?”

He has you there. You could work your righteous fury all you want, but you know that the only person who's more protective of Sam than you are is Dean. To a fault, even. He'd die twice over before ever cutting corners with Sam's life. Still, you would like to have seen how it all turned out, to have been there in case he opened his eyes. When it comes to Sam, Dean may be his brother, but you're...

Well, you're _something_ anyway.

“Why didn't you wake me up?”

Not that it would have been easy; you're willing to admit that much. A hit like that and you were probably concussed. You touch one hand gingerly to the back of your head and wince. Dean doesn't look much better off: his cheek and temple swollen, bruising red where the blood is pooling beneath the skin. By this time tomorrow, it'll be black and blue. Whatever mojo Ezekiel had conjured up to fix Sam— _supposedly fix Sam_ —he must not have had any left to spare.

“Yeah, about that—”

“I should have been there.”

“You _were_ there.”

“You know what I mean, Dean; I was—”

“Out cold.” He finishes your sentence, returning it to you as an explanation. Or an excuse. He hesitates, directing his attention back to the road ahead and leaving it there. “And if I'm being honest, you needed the sleep anyway.”

“Dean, I was fine,” you lie.

“No, you were _spacey_.”

“How so?” You fall back against the seat and cross your arms. At this point, you're just being argumentative for the sake of pride. You know Dean's right. And saying you were “spacey” is probably the generous description. But damn it, you don’t have to _like_ it.

“Seriously?” His reflection arches a brow at you. “You stood there making goo-goo eyes at Ezekiel for like five friggin' minutes.”

“ _What?_ That wasn't—I was not making _goo-goo eyes_ , Dean. Who even says that?”  _Like somebody’s fucking grandmother._

“So, what? Death glare? Point is, Y/N, you were borderline certifiable and if you didn't get some rest I was gonna have to leave you there on principle.”

And there it is: game, set, match.

You let loose an exasperated sigh, leaning forward and draping your elbows over the front seat. Call it your white flag. “Fake-it-'til-you-make-it” isn't a card you can keep playing ad infinitum. It hadn't served you well all day, and you're already way past your quota. You rest your head on your arms, reaching over with one hand to tuck an errant lock of hair over Sam's ear. If nothing else, you have to admit: he feels _warm_ , healthy. Healthi _er_ , at least.

“Look, we need to talk about this,” Dean says, solemn and apologetic, after a long period of silence.

His voice is not quite enough to distract you from the intermittent orange flashes of street lights that cross over his brother's face.

“About Sam,” he adds.

And there it is. “I thought you said—”

“I know what I said.” Dean raises his chin in subtle defiance before nodding. “And I stand by it. He's gonna come out of this, okay? He is.”

“What, then?”

“It's just...” He pauses to let a breath out slowly through his nose. “Getting back to one hundred percent is gonna take some time.”

You knit your brows together. What's he getting at exactly? Apart from the obvious “magic bullet” speech, which is—well... _Pointless_ , quite frankly. Both of you know that concept died with the Colt, and every solution since has come with strings.

“Ezekiel said he's not gonna remember. The hospital, the coma, the healing—none of it.” He tightens his grip on the steering wheel. “This is just us, Y/N; just between you and me. Sammy, he—he just needs to focus on getting better, all right? Not worrying about how bad it got. Not yet.”

Your eyes linger on Dean just long enough that you don't miss the subtle clench of his jaw as he awaits your answer. Beyond that, it's all Sam—looking more peaceful than he has since... Honestly, you can't remember when.

“Okay.”

“ _Okay?_ ” Dean repeats, as if he expected more pushback.

“Yeah,” you say, dropping your volume with a soft, resigned huff. “Just—okay. Yes.”

You don't like the idea of withholding information from Sam, but it wasn't you who got him here in the first place. It's bitter and it makes you ache with guilt from the inside out, but as far as you're concerned it's the truth. You weren't the one who called Ezekiel, the one who fought off the angels, or the one who pulled Sam out when it was over. That was all Dean.

“Listen, Y/N; this—this is good, you hear me?” Dean seems relieved. “Whatever the hell else is going on—the angels, the demons, the— _whatever_...” He takes one hand off the wheel briefly, slicing it sideways through the air in a dismissive gesture. “We'll deal with it together, just like we always do. And you, me, _Sam_ —”

“Sam what?”

The newest voice is groggy, low. For a moment it disorients you, your mind unable to wrap itself around the fact that it's— _that it's really_ —

“Whoa, hey—” Dean catches himself in a double-take. “Speak of the devil.”

His light words are anchored by obvious concern. You can feel the selfsame weight being lifted from your chest as Sam rights himself in his seat—slowly but surely, in both cases. And then you can breathe.

“ _Sam._ ”

“Y/N.” He brings a hand to his face, thumb and forefinger rubbing his eyelids. “Dean. Where are we?”

“Okay, take—take it easy,” Dean sputters. “How you, uh—how you feeling?”

“Tired. Like I—like I slept for a week.”

“Well, try a day,” Dean says. “You've been out since the sky was spittin' angels.”

You reach over to touch Sam's shoulder, half-mired in disbelief. For the first time in over twenty-four hours—he can reach back, his hand over yours. To you, it feels longer. Time has a way of slowing itself down, dragging on and on whenever Sam is out of the picture. When Dean had been in Purgatory, for example. True, you had Kevin; and enough demon drama to last a lifetime, but... Or before that, when Sam saved the world, stopped the unstoppable— _when he_...

No, that one still hurts to think about. It happens too much. Was going to happen again, even. Still might.

A light squeeze from Sam's fingers saves you from hanging on that possibility, and you manage to catch the tail end of Dean's—question, it must be. His rising intonation is hopeful and wary in equal parts.

“—feeling good?”

“Yeah. I mean, I just... A lot to take in, I guess,” Sam says. “And—and Cas? Where's he?”

“Longmont,” Dean answers, matter-of-factly. “Colorado.”

You quirk a brow. “That's...specific.”

“Yeah, he, uh—he called me. From a payphone, back when we took that last pit stop.” Dean gives a directional tilt of his head, but you'd wager that this “pit stop” of his is likely some five hundred miles behind you by now—maybe more. Back in Randolph, New York. “He says Metatron tricked him. Took his grace when he gave the angels the boot.”

_Took his grace._

“You didn't—Cas is _human?_ ”

“ _Ish._ ”

Sam shifts in his seat. “What, like—like Anna?”

“Yeah,” Dean says, before correcting himself with an afterthought. “Well, no; not exactly. Cas is still _Cas_ , but he's got no grace, no wings, no...harp; whatever the hell else he had.”

You sigh and shake your head, one new complication after another jumbling around inside, piling up. And to think; just two days prior, you'd all been so positive that you were reaching the finish line. Or at least as close as the three of you would ever get. “So, a couple thousand angels out there and we've got...exactly zero.”

“More or less,” Dean says. His voice is thick with resignation. “But it doesn't matter. We got somethin' better.”

“What's that?” Sam asks.

“We got us.”

* * *

 

The three of you make it back to the bunker the next day, having pulled off I-80 for an extended nap somewhere between Des Moines and Lebanon. Dean didn't trust either of you with the last five hours behind the wheel—Sam, so newly recovered from his condition; and you, with your maybe-concussion. The latter, you kept carefully quiet about. Even Dean had to appreciate that level of discretion coming from you. For all the practice you had lying to yourself, you were terrible at it when it came to people you cared about.

The library had been turned upside-down in your absence, by a panicked and pitifully sleep-deprived Kevin Tran. The sight bordered on comical: a table overturned, with books piled in front, and a recently discharged crossbow lying discarded in the war room. If nothing else, you had to smile at his weapon of choice. You'd made a point to include crossbow training in his marksmanship crash course, though handguns and sawed-offs came first. Obviously.

It had taken a good five minutes to explain to him that the world wasn't ending— _again_ —and a great deal longer than that to convince him it was excusable to keep the King of Hell tied and trussed in the bunker's makeshift dungeon. Not that you could blame him. After having spent the better part of a year trying to evade Crowley, watching Sam walk him through your front door was the worst kind of surreal. Not just surreal—sadistic, after everything Kevin had lost.

You kept that part to yourself.

Even setting emotions aside—if such a thing were possible—it was a logistical nightmare. Strapping a high-powered demon to a chair seemed, to you, a lot like keeping a tiger on a leash. Sure, there was the devil's trap. And the Men of Letters had been clever with their engraved manacles, but clever hadn't been enough to save them back in the fifties.

The whole thing reeked of bad decisions—the kind that come back to bite you. As if the three of you hadn't made enough of those already.

“You gonna drink that?” Dean asks, nodding at the half-full bottle of beer on the table in front of you. At your fingers trailing absently up and down the perspiring glass. “Or just show it a good time?”

Grounding yourself in the present, you bring the bottle to your lips for a sip before responding in kind. “Easy there, Winchester.” You can feel the smile tugging at the corner of your mouth to match the good-natured rise of Dean's brows. “Marathon, remember?”

“Man, I'm tellin' you,” he says, and shakes his head with all the well-intentioned wisdom of a teacher scolding his pupil. “Nothin' like a warm beer to ruin a good night.”

You give Dean a courtesy chuckle, but now that he mentions it, warm _anything_ sounds like a blessing. Hot, even better. You glance at the clock on the wall, ticking just past ten at night. When was the last time you'd had a hot shower? Any kind of shower beyond a cursory wash-up in a hospital bathroom. With foaming hand soap.

“Speaking of good nights,” you say, setting your bottle on the table and getting to your feet, “I think I'm gonna hit the showers.”

“That an open invitation?” Sam asks, without missing a beat. A coy little smirk parts his lips—the one you love best. Lopsided, with teeth.

“You want it to be?”

“Oh, for the love of— _really?_ ” Dean shifts his eyes from you to his brother with a look somewhere along the spectrum of horror and disgust. He spreads his arms wide, fingers still clutched around his bottle of El Sol. “I'm _right here._ ”

“Problem, Dean?” Sam's poker face is impeccable as he takes a swig from his own drink.

 _Tulsa_ , you think with a flush of embarrassment. You can practically see the memory flashing behind Dean's eyes as he works his jaw like he's about to speak. Instead, he shuts his mouth and gives the bottle in his hand a test shake, setting it down on the table with more force than is strictly necessary when he finds it empty. _Yep. Tulsa._

“Saved by the beer,” Dean mutters, pushing himself to a stand and heading in the direction of the kitchen.

With Dean's back turned, Sam shoots you the wide-mouthed grin he'd been holding in. It makes you happy, _delighted_ , that Sam has regained enough of himself to get a kick out of riling his brother. God, it feels downright _normal_ , and when does that ever happen? Maybe Dean had been right. Demons and angels aside, this is good. Hell, this is _heaven_.

 _Thank god for Ezekiel,_ you think, returning Sam with a smile of your own. _Wherever he is._

* * *

 

Midway through your second round of hair-washing, the door to the communal showers opens and closes with a heavy _click_. You can't see anything, eyes squeezed shut as you rinse the fruity, sweet-smelling lather from your hair, but you hardly have to guess at your company. Kevin had crashed hard well before the first beer was cracked open—out of commission until morning, most likely. And Dean, of course, would be avoiding this area of the bunker like the plague.

“Didn't think you were actually gonna show up,” you say, pitching your volume over the running water.

Unnecessary, as it turns out.

“What, and pass up on you? No way.” From the sound of it, he’s just a few feet behind you.

And his _voice_ —it’s more than close. Familiar. Fucking _cozy_.

You turn with a smile, blink the water from your lashes, and welcome the sight: Sam, with nothing but a shower bag under his arm and a tightly-wrapped towel around his waist. The last time you'd been together was ages ago it feels like, and maintaining a sense of decency is difficult. Especially when you're greeted with the visible outline of his cock—half-hard from watching you—pressing against the textured white cotton.

God only knows how you manage to bring your eyes to his face long enough to respond like a civilized human being.

“Feeling that good, huh?”

It's only been a day and already the warm, tan color of his skin is returning. He looks alive. Blessedly, _mouth-wateringly_ , alive.

“Great, actually.” Sam pointedly ignores your lascivious staring, teasing you with patience. He tosses his bag to the floor, on the inside of the half-partition wall that sections off your shower. “You?”

He unwraps the towel, casual as anything, and hangs it on a nearby hook before stepping into the stream of water. Close enough that the lack of his hands on you feels almost criminal. Your eyes follow the droplets in their course along his body, each tiny stream diverted by the curve of his pecs and the defined grooves of his abdomen. You're thankful for the distraction. It makes it easier to ignore the obvious answer to his question—that your head still hurts like hell where an angel introduced it to a hospital wall.

What you opt for is truthful, if only half-honest: “I can think of ways I'd feel a lot better.”

There it is—the _look_. Lust and mischief; a combination that has never disappointed you. He puts his hands over your hips, backing you slowly into the wall. Compared to the heat of the water—not to mention the spiraling inferno in your belly—the black tiles pressing against your skin are shockingly cool. Sam lowers his head, letting his mouth hover just over yours.

“What—you mean better, like...” One light swipe of his tongue before he layers his lips over yours, nipping you with his teeth when he pulls back. “...that?”

You groan and press your thighs together as Sam moves to kneel in front of you, trailing kisses down your stomach. His hands never leave their position on your hips. If anything, Sam's grip gets tighter the lower his mouth travels, the pressure of his fingers strengthening his claim on you by the inch.

“Or better like this?” Without taking his eyes off of you for so much as one merciful second, he drags the expanse of his tongue over your clit, punctuating the movement with a gentle suck between his lips.

The noise that tears from your throat is wanton and needy, and you couldn't give a _fuck_. It's what you are whenever the two of you find each other like this. The inelegant, the unchaste; always ready to come apart at the seams. All Sam has to do is ask, and he does it without words—only the best of ways. You don't have that grace.

“ _Fuck, Sam._ ”

You pull up one knee in a subconscious effort to give him more access, your pussy aching for his attention. He lifts the offered leg with one hand, hooking it over his shoulder in a fluid motion, as though he'd done it a thousand times before. Not quite, but you'd be god damned if it wasn't close. You get each other naked and it's only a matter of time before Sam's head is between your thighs—like clockwork, and you love every fucking minute.

Sam dips the tip of his tongue between your folds, runs it back and forth along your entrance before plunging it into you with a throaty growl. You pride yourself on knowing every single, sinful sound he makes. That one is hunger—the perfect companion to the desperate drive of his tongue. He clings to you, his large hands kneading the soft flesh of your ass.

Combined with the hot steam you inhale with each gasp, the persistent nuzzling of Sam's nose against your clit makes your head spin. His damp hair clings to his cheeks and— _oh fuck; Sam, Sam, Sam!_ —to your thighs as he devours you. You dig your hands into it and _pull_ , both for your balance and his pleasure. That Sam likes to play a little rough on occasion is no secret—not to you—and his cock jumps in response.

You'd been teetering on a knife's edge, and the sight alone is enough to pull you over. As the waves of your orgasm course through you, your fingers begin to loosen in his hair. Your moans quiet to deep, steadying breaths, and the sound is lost to the constant patter of water against skin and porcelain.

By the time Sam slides your leg from his shoulder—gently, gradually, until toes touch tile—you are all but certain that this is your personal heaven. The way he looks at you as he licks the last of you from his lips. The depth of his voice when he asks if you liked it as much as he did. The smug expression he wears because he already knows the answer. When he rises to a stand in front of you, you are more than willing to take his place on your knees. Willing, but unable, when Sam wraps his fingers around your arms.

“Wait,” he says, taking advantage of his grip to turn you, pivoting your body into an about-face. His hands find yours, positioning them palms-to-the-wall just above the level of your head. He holds them in place. Not long. Just long enough, so that he doesn't have to say it out loud:

_Keep them there._

And then his hands drift. Back, along the lengths of your arms. Down, fingertips tracing the curve of your breasts before continuing past your rib cage to rest on your hips. He leans against you with his whole body, gifting the crook of your neck with a kiss.

“ _Oh,_ ” you groan, mentally scolding yourself. “Sam, we can't... I didn't—”

You feel him smile against your skin before he pulls away, crouching down to the black bag near your feet. He comes back with a condom tucked snugly between his index and middle fingers. “I did.”

“You think ahead.” You watch him over your shoulder with appreciative eyes as he tears open the package and rolls the condom over his rock hard length.

“Maybe.” Sam pulls your hips back toward him, wedging his cock between your slippery thighs. “Or I just know what I want.”

You arch your back, offer yourself to him at a promising angle. “Take it then.”

“You ready for me?”

 _Oh, holy fuck_ , are you ever. Sam had made sure of it with the way he worked his tongue. He'd left you dripping, your arousal barely disguised by the trickle of hot water down your legs. But you know him. He likes to hear it—the pure, visceral _need_ in your voice when you beg him to fuck you.

You are not above begging.

“For you, always.” You wiggle impatiently, but keep your hands flat and obedient against the shower wall. Sam lines himself up, the barely there pressure of the tip of his cock at your entrance is enough to drive you wild. You give him exactly what he wants. “Fuck me, Sam, _please_.”

He's sheathed to the hilt before the last word even leaves your mouth. There's no getting used to it, no matter how many times it happens—the shock of Sam's size when he fills you up without preamble. It ripples through you, that exquisite pleasure-pain, settling on your nerves as he stretches you to suit him.

“Oh, Y/N.” He grinds his hips against your ass as he takes a measured stroke, out and back in. “I've wanted this all day”— _out_ —“wanted you”—and _in_.

Somewhere in your mind an emphatic “me too” demands to be spoken, but your focus is lost in a haze—desire, ecstasy, _relief_. Sam picks up his pace until your entire body is shaking with the rigorous force of his thrusts. You rock back into him, clawing hopelessly at the wall for purchase. His hand reaches around to still the bounce of your breasts, cupping them one after the other and massaging with his thumb.

You bite your lip against the steady flow of whimpers, but Sam's mouth is at your ear. _Whispering_ things, like “That's good” and “I want you to come” and “I need to hear it,” and how the _hell_ are you supposed to argue with that? He has you wound like a spring, hitting every sweet spot that you have more times than you can count.

As always, these last few moments are undoubtedly the best—Sam's cock twitching inside you, the guttural grunts that start low in his chest. Your loud, vulgar cries echo against the walls, slowly subsiding until they are little more than the ghost of Sam’s name on your lips. You face forward and he replaces his name with his mouth.

One moment, too brief.

Then Sam’s embracing you, chest to chest, stock-steady, breathing a muffled “thank you” into your hair. And his tone. It’s not thank you for this. Not for today, nor for untold hours next to an unknown hospital bed. It’s thank you for standing beside him in a dark church—when he was staggering at the precipice between everything and nothing—and promising to hold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To be continued...
> 
> I can also be found on Tumblr as [white-feather-black-ink](white-feather-black-ink.tumblr.com). Bonus: everything I post there comes with a handy little button that will replace all the Y/N tags in the story with your name (or whatever name you choose to enter). If you'd like to follow me there, please feel free. Thanks for reading!


End file.
